


A foolish love

by blue_butterfly



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: (although that's more on the author's part), 18th Century, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Erotica, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, Imagined Threesome, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Desires, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/M/M, fashion kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_butterfly/pseuds/blue_butterfly
Summary: George loves Elizabeth. He also loves fashionable clothes. One day, those two loves collide and the outcome is most surprising.





	A foolish love

**Author's Note:**

> This needed to happen. I just have a thing for George in pretty dresses, okay? Also, I wrote a hetero pairing *gasps* The Warleggans rock! But there is some George/Ross implied and mentioned, I'm (not) sorry, I couldn't help it. 
> 
> I think most of the 18th century words are explained through the context, but I'm putting a small fashion glossary at the end nevertheless.

* * *

 

George's fingers glided over the lid of the cardboard box, gently and with care, almost reverently, like he would touch his son's hair, or Elizabeth's bare arm late at night when they were alone in front of the fireplace.

The box had been delivered 20 minutes ago for his wife, but Elizabeth was taking tea at Lady Vaughn's and was not expected back for another hour or two, and so the box sat on the table in the drawing room, piquing George's curiosity. It came from Mr Booth the draper, so it was most likely a dress or another piece of clothing that Elizabeth had ordered. There was a sheer endless row of social events the Warleggans had been invited to, and Elizabeth liked to indulge both in her new financial security and in the admiration she garnered from her husband, so George willingly allowed her to spend away as much as she liked on finery and clothes. If it put a smile on her face, he would not deny her a new dress or two.

He preferred his wife in tones of blue: cornflower, sapphire, royal blue to complement her lovely eyes. An honest fellow had once told George that blue suited him as well, however George was not overly fussy with what he wore as long as it was fashionable and matched Elizabeth's choice. Indeed, the black-and-berry striped dress she had worn for the ball at Sir Francis' house some weeks ago had looked stunning as well, bringing out her eyes and hair in a beautiful and, as George thought, slightly daring way, which he liked a lot.

The box sat there, innocently enough, but tempting in its own way. Should he look inside? It was addressed to his wife and George always made a point of not invading her privacy. On the other hand he liked to know what colour she would wear, so he could have a coordinating waistcoat made or give her a piece of matching jewelry as a surprise. Surely she wouldn't mind, and if he did it carefully she wouldn't even know that he had looked. So before he knew it, he was removing the lid and pulling away the tissue paper to reveal what was inside.

It was a dress, as expected.

This dress however, sitting right in front of him in its box, was neither sapphire nor cornflower nor any other kind of blue; it wasn't black or berry either but of the softest, palest green. He had heard this colour being called _sea foam_ on occasion, but whoever had come up with that name was a fool and had never seen the sea. The sea was grey most of the time, grey and black in storms and dirty blue on a good day, but nothing like this, nothing like this green dress at all. George could not think of anything in nature that came close to it, except maybe the tiny feathers on a peacock's neck, and yet not quite.

Deciding to risk a closer look he took the gown out of its box and unfolded it with careful hands. It was a robe in the English style, made of heavy silk taffeta, and once allowed out of its confinement and held up into the light it changed colour and seemed almost Robin's Egg blue, and then green again when turned another way, and there were highlights of silver shimmering on the folds like speckles of moonlight on a pond.

Flounces of delicate white lace were at the end of the elbow-length sleeves, and a small strip of the same lace had been used to finish the neckline. Down the front edges of the skirt was a small trim of tiny ribbon bows made of the same silk fabric. It was a formal dress, no doubt, ordered for a grand occasion - most likely the ball at Cavendish House that the Warleggans were invited to. The presence of a duke required splendid attire, and no doubt Elizabeth would look breathtakingly beautiful in this robe.

George lifted it up and held it close to himself, checking in the mirror whether the colour, if he could ever find a fabric like this, would suit him too. He would have a coat made of it, with silver gilt embroidery perhaps, maybe something floral, or rather something simple so as not to outshine his wife? Absent-mindedly he touched the lace, let his fingers taste the delicate fabric, and was about to put the gown away again when, out of a whim, a thought struck him.

 _What harm will it do_ , he spoke silently to his mirror image. _I am merely wanting to see if the colour suits me._

He took off his coat and slipped into the bodice. The overskirt swirled beautifully around him, and the green brought out the green highlights in his own eyes. With a deep sigh, he cast a longing glance at himself in the mirror. He had secretly always thought it a pity that fashions had changed so rapidly and that he hadn't been born some 20 years earlier so that he could indulge in the fine and costly court clothes of the 1740s, or the playful elegance of the 1750s. Men's fashions were so simple and plain these days; women being the only ones allowed to wear a bit of lace here and a bit of sparkling embroidery there. This robe was a dream made of fabric, and George found it regrettable that men were excluded from such luxuries.

Servants' chatter suddenly echoed in the hallway, and within seconds George removed the dress and put it back inside the box. Hot shame coloured his face bright red. What was he thinking, wearing his wife's clothes? Someone could come in at any second, catching him in this most embarrassing of circumstances. He must have lost his senses! Thank god the servants had had no business in the drawing room.

He closed the box, put on his coat again and left the room. Other matters demanded his attention that day and in the days to follow, and he quite forgot about the incident, and about the dress altogether.

Elizabeth wore it to the Cavendish ball and looked resplendent in it, George asking to dance with her again and again, and when they got home that evening he insisted to help her out of the gown and took delight in removing it ever so carefully before the couple went to bed and made love for the better part of the night.

In the following weeks George's thoughts drifted back to the green dress, to the way it had shimmered in the light and rustled when he touched it, and a steady desire grew inside him that could not be ignored any longer. When one day Elizabeth was at tea again he slipped away from his desk, found the gown in question and withdrew to a small chamber where no one was likely to disturb him. He put it on over his shirt and breeches, awkwardly, wishing for a moment that he had been born a girl, but was then glad that it was not so, for women were burdened by so many restrictions that being one at this time and age must be cumbersome and frustrating. But then, he realized, men were not completely free either, or else he would be allowed to wear such splendid robes openly, and not just in the secrecy of a hidden chamber. Nevertheless he enjoyed the rustling of the wide skirts around his legs, the cool touch of the silk against his skin, and he wondered if he could ever look as pretty as Elizabeth had at the ball.

In the months that followed George used every possible opportunity - there weren't many, anyway, and it always had to happen quickly in secret - to get his hands on one of Elizabeth's gowns. A yellow cotton one sneaked from the dressing table after she had left the room, a pink satin one picked from the arms of a maid under the excuse that it was too costly to be carried in a laundry basket, a blue brocaded one picked up freshly from the dressmakers by a doting husband who would take it to his wife himself - not without a little detour to his chamber.

Sometimes a number of days went by when George wouldn't allow himself to think of his secret pastime, too ashamed for what he was doing behind his wife's back, but he never managed to suppress the urge - or was it an addiction, yet? - for longer than a week or two before the desire grew so great again that he had to admit defeat. And after a while he convinced himself that there was no harm in it as long as no one knew; he was not doing anything forbidden after all, and why should he deny himself the small pleasures that it brought him?

And then one day Elizabeth left in the morning to travel to Bodmin to see a distant relative, and was not expected back before the evening. George sent word to the bank of his absence for the day, and dismissed all the servants. He did not like the secretiveness of his actions, feeling clandestine and illicit for the entire nature of his doings, but at the same time a strange excitement took possession of him as soon as he reached the bedroom, where he intended to go through with his plan.

He drew the curtains and lit some candles. What he was going to do called for the cover of the night, not for broad daylight as a witness. On a chair in the corner was draped his riding habit, ready for use, but he paid it no heed. He brought forth the green dress, neatly stored away in a large wooden chest for better days, for it had always been his favourite gown of all. The silk greeted him with its familiar rustling, the lace was like an old and trusted friend, and he briefly thought that it was a strange affair between the two of them, the man of the house cheating on his wife - not with another woman, but with a woman's gown.

He had always enjoyed the intimacy of aiding Elizabeth when she was getting dressed - a kiss on her slender neck before she covered it with a fichu; the feeling of her hair between his fingers when he held it out for combing - and thus he knew where she kept most of her wardrobe and her accessories.

His plan was to don the full attire, just this once (a small voice kept saying, to see how ridiculous he looked and to never do it again afterwards, but this little voice of reason was but an empty pretence and he knew it). So, first of all he needed a shift, and for the sake of easiness he took the one Elizabeth had worn the day before, for it was laid out already on the bed, and he was not sure he could ever fold one and put it back so neatly like the maid did if he were to take one out of the drawer. Stripping off his own clothes was a brief affair; he had deliberately not put on more than a house gown and a shirt this morning.

Once he was in Elizabeth's shift he felt quite different, the linen being much finer than the one of his own shirt, and the little trim of crochet lace adding the first touches of feminine appeal. A pair of silk stockings was next, again much finer than his own although George already ordered them of the finest quality. They were kept from slipping by a silken ribbon tied around each knee. He then went in search of a pair of stays to be worn atop the shift, and this was the trickiest item for it required another set of hands to lace it up the back. His hands were usually the ones doing this work, meticulously threading eyelet after eyelet, but he knew for a fact Elizabeth also owned some that laced up the front, which could be put on without the help of another. He found such a one in pale blue with white binding and put it on, watching in fascination as the whalebone canes forced his body into new shapes with every tug at the lacing. His waist, shrinking. His chest pushed up, forming what looked indeed like the beginning of a small cleavage. He gasped - the illusion was too real; by candlelight it could probably fool a man into believing tender breasts to hide behind the neckline of the shift.

He then tied a padded roll around his waist for more shape - his hips were hardly feminine enough, and fashion required skirts to flare out at the hips and in the back. A simple petticoat of white cotton lawn covered these undergarments. Now he was ready for the gown itself. His heart began to beat a little faster. So far, he had never worn a ladies' dress like it was supposed to, with all the proper underpinnings. He had only ever thrown them on in haste during a few rushed moments of privacy, and he was excited to actually see himself in one now.

The green gown had a matching petticoat, plain save for a band of ruching at the hem. Slipping this garment over his head produced the familiar sound of rustling silk, and where his skin was not covered, the fabric felt cool and crisp. His breathing quickened as he closed the waistband and smoothed down the front of the petticoat. Now that he had gone so far he almost lost his courage - could he go so far? Should he? Ah, no hesitating now! Quickly he grabbed the robe and put it on, slid into the sleeves, spread out the overskirt so it fell beautifully over petticoat and underthings; he drew the bodice tight and almost feared it wouldn't fit, wouldn't close over his new bosom, but it did, the edges met smoothly down the middle of his torso and with shaking fingers he closed the tiny hooks.

For a few moments he stood there shivering, overwhelmed at what he had done. He yearned to cast a glance at himself in the large mirror, but forcefully kept himself from doing so. There were yet a few more touches to make his plan complete. First, he went for Elizabeth's jewelry box. Unfortunately he had no earholes, for he would have loved to wear the large pearldrops for once. Instead he took a necklace, one that he had draped around Elizabeth's slender neck many times, made of pear-shaped pinkish pearls. They were cool to the touch, an unfamiliar weight where normally neck-stock and collar covered him from view. He felt like a costly prize, like something worth having that people would go to great lengths to possess.

At last, all that was now left to deal with was his face. A handheld mirror and his wife's vanity table were his helpers in this task. First, he reached for the dome-shaped glass container that held the facial powder; he would not need a lot of it since he was rather fair-skinned by nature, always had been, prompting others to call him nasty names for that quality. Recently be had gained a bit of a tan as he was venturing outside more, but he was still nowhere near as dark as, let's say, a certain Poldark was. He dipped the sponge brush into the fine powder and applied a little to his face, working in careful strokes to achieve an even finish. Next, he opened a small box that contained a reddish paste; tentatively he dipped a finger inside and, looking in the mirror, drew the brightened fingertip across his cheekbones. What a miracle this was: just a little bit of colour in some places could shape his face in an entirely new way, hiding shadows, bringing out structures where before there were none. His eyes appeared larger - he had long lashes anyway but now his whole expression seemed different, his face more soft, the chin more rounded, and when a little bit of paste was left on his fingertip he drew it across his slightly parted lips, tinting them a dusky rose.

Now the time had come to take a look at the completed work.

Timidly, he went to the alcove that held the large mirror and stepped in front of it, afraid of what it would present to him. He took a deep breath - oh, how his heart was beating! Quickly he forbade himself any deeper thought of what he'd done, or else he'd be overwhelmed by shame. Quietly he counted to three, took a deep breath - his hands were almost shaking. Upon opening his eyes he gasped, pleasantly surprised, for the mirror showed not a painted scarecrow of some sort but an elegant young lady clad in green. Her cheeks dusted by a tender blush, lace falling from her gracefully curved elbows, the fluttering of her heart visible in the gentle heaving of her chest.

He stood and stared at his reflection for a long while, unable to move, captivated by the transformation. In the end he began to move slowly, turning to see the dress moving with him, admiring its fall and its flow around his womanly shapes. A feeling of high exaltation seized him and he struck a few poses, pretending to be complimented by an admirer or being asked for a dance, whirling around as he imagined an invisible partner holding him around the waist as they danced a complicated figure. He bowed, he curtsied, he turned and looked over his shoulder coyly, batting his lashes, and a lighthearted laugh wrought itself loose from his lips as he spun around and indulged in the fantasy he had brought to life.

His desire to go out in public dressed like this increased, he wished to be seen, to be admired and - he barely dared think it - maybe catch the eye of a possible suitor or another, playing a delicious and coquettish game of courtship.

And Elizabeth, oh, Elizabeth!

If she saw him like this.....! Disgusted she would be, and appalled at what she'd married. But, alas, this was a fantasy and nothing more, so he could wish, for once, just wish and dream of anything he pleased, even of a scenario in which Elizabeth would tolerate her husband's strange attire; moreover, in which she'd happily engage in this game.

Elizabeth, or....!  
_This is a fantasy, this is not real...!_  
So, what if..?  
_There is no shame in thinking it!_

George's mind drifted from his wife to someone else. Dark locks, dark smile, dark soul. What would he do? The dark Poldark. What would he think? So tempting to imagine Ross' fiery gaze upon him. But then - Elizabeth. Elizabeth....or Ross? ....oh, but why decide? No, no, Elizabeth _and_ Ross it should be! This was George's fantasy after all, and nothing but a product of his imagination, so why not having both of them, together, taking George to bed? Kissing him in turns, touching him as he lay helplessly between them, doing things with their hands and their mouths that made him gasp and writhe and beg for more. Elizabeth's elegant fingers sliding into his bodice, playing with his breasts while she kissed him; Ross in turn lifting the hem of his dress, Ross' rough hands on his thighs...

...god, oh GOD! Too much of it....!

He fell back against the wall and reached under his skirt - _his_ skirt! Forbidden words like choirs in his ears! - his skirt, his hand, his straining manhood - deliciously rubbing against the silk as he touched himself, blush intensifying without the help of any makeup, red lips parted, his false bosom heaving - a picture of debauchery reflected in the mirror, and it was shameless and quick, too quick - he didn't dare drawing it out, _couldn't_ \- and in the end he spent himself so completely that he had to wonder how he had managed not to soil Elizabeth's dress.

Panting, he collapsed onto a footstool, hands clasped in his silk-clad lap, still shaking from the violent release. His heart a drumbeat in his ears George let out a half-moan; dilated pupils staring back at him, feverish, and his red lips still parted, ready to welcome a lover's kiss.

Caught in this state he must have missed the noises from the yard, or the commotion down the hall, and also the footsteps on the stairs, and when he finally realized what they were it was too late. The door was creaking open - his wife was home! He'd recognize her out of thousands by the sounds of her movements alone, - and he sat in horror, frozen, he could not get away or hide and his heart was racing, maybe she would not see him there in the alcove, perhaps she'd look for him elsewhere, perhaps....

She appeared behind him in the mirror, stood, silent, taking in the scene.

She said nothing and what should she? Just stood and watched and judged him, and he could not turn around, could not look her in the eyes, only at her reflection as his breathing faltered. He closed his eyes in shame, bit his lips - he was shaking, not from pleasure now but from the terror of expecting her departure any minute. His mind was racing - was he loosing her? How could he explain....? - and he was chastising himself for giving in to his desires in the first place. He heard her move - surely she was leaving now, leaving him. Oh, Elizabeth...!

Warm hands touched his shoulders. His eyes flew open. She stood behind him, and she was smiling.

"Elizabeth?" he whispered.

She leaned down, her warm lips placing a soft kiss on the bend of his neck. "You look beautiful, my dear," she said, and smiled.

What -- ?

She kissed again behind his ear, then looked up to meet his eyes in the mirror. "We must get clips for your ears so you can wear some pretty pearls there, too."

George's hand flew up to cover his mouth, to suppress the gasp he was about to make. Surely he was dreaming, must be dreaming, this could not be true...

"You do not mind....?" he asked eventually, his voice a distant echo in his ears.

Elizabeth caressed his cheek. "Not if I am allowed the same liberties." Her eyes were dark, glittering with excitement.

"All the liberties you wish," he said and pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.

She straightened then, her hand lingering on his shoulder for another moment.

"Stay here, my dear. I will only take a moment."

Rooted to the spot he watched her walk away then, his eyes going wide as she stripped, put away her clothes and reached for George's riding habit on the chair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment :)  
> (Note: rants and stupid comments will be deleted at the author's discretion.)
> 
> *** F A S H I O N G L O S S A R Y ***
> 
> Draper: 18th century term for a dressmaker or tailor who also sold fabrics and notions.
> 
> English style: Also called robe à l'Anglaise, a gown with a fitted back (as opposed to the French style which had two deep, loose pleats at the back). The bodice opened at the front and had a skirt attached at the back and sides (=overskirt), but was open at the front. The gap was filled by a separate underskirt (=petticoat) worn underneath.
> 
> Pale green: A very rare colour as it was hard to achieve with dyes. No pale green robe a l'Anglaise has survived, but a few extant men's coats of pale green silk taffeta are in various museums. George wears one in season 2 at the Bodrugan party.
> 
> Fichu: A triangular piece of lace or fine cotton used by women to cover neck and chest (18th century dresses had a very deep neckline). Usually white.
> 
> Shift: Also called a chemise. Basic piece of underwear for women. A knee-length or longer shirt of fine cotton or linen, usually white. The first layer of clothing on a woman's body. 
> 
> House gown: A loose, wrap-around or belted robe worn by gentlemen at home. Made of expensive fabrics, usually silk brocades.
> 
> Stays, a pair of stays: 18th century term for a corset. Went over the shift and usually laced in the back. Stiffened with small strips of whalebone, reed, wood or sometimes cords. Unlike the hourglass-corsets of the 19th century, stays shaped the torso into an inverted triangle.
> 
> Padded roll: By the end of the 18th century, the wide, hooped petticoats (panniers) had gone out of fashion and were replaced by a variety of padded cushions or rolls that were tied around the waist over the stays. Dresse were fullest at the back where all the fabric was gathered into pleats or folds, so padding was required to give the proper shape and silhouette to a dress.
> 
> Petticoat: 18th century term for a skirt, either an underskirt or one that could be seen.
> 
> Cotton lawn: A very fine, thin cotton fabric.


End file.
